Page 17 of Arranged Scars
I just wish that didn’t involve giving Finn something he wants.
6
FINN
My elbows ache from leaning on the bar for the last couple hours. A half-empty glass of beer’s going warm in front of me. The music is loud, but nobody bothers me. It’s my bar, after all, one of a dozen scattered throughout New York. This place is gaudy and Irish-themed, but the sort of Ireland tourists like to imagine, with lots of green and harps and vaguely rural shit like brooms and walking sticks.
Somebody takes the stool to my right. Liam asks for a whiskey when the bartender comes to check on him. She glances at me and I wave her off. “I figured you’d be busy tonight,” I say.
Liam raps a knuckle on the bar top. “I had a date with a gorgeous young thing named Malachy Flanagan, but it turns out he’s boring as fuck.”
“How’s good old Mal doing?”
The bartender returns with the drink. Liam takes a sip. “I’m almost resentful of you, you know that? Watching these pricks is exhausting.”
“I told you to gather a crew.”
“And I did, but still.” Liam takes another drink. “Mal works the closest with the old man. He spends most his days taking meetings with the union bigwigs. Sits around in that office they have on Market and makes phone calls. Picks his ass and jerks his little dick. He likes suits too much.”
“What about the others?”
“Shane’s more interesting. Drives around a lot. Likes to hit the pavement. I can relate to that. He’s a big bastard though. Short temper. I’d avoid getting in a scrap with him.”
“You getting into man scraps these days?”
“Only when I’m bored or horny, which is all the time.” He grins at me and waggles his eyebrows. “Speaking of boring, next is Dermot. I hate that stupid name.”
“He hates it too.”
Liam presses his lips together. “Now how would you know a thing like that?”
“It’s a lucky guess.” I knock back my beer and wiggle the glass to call for another. The bartender brings it right away. “What’s Dermot up to?”
“Works IT for the family interest, as far as I can tell. He’s their computer nerd. Clever bastard. That’s what people say, anyway.”
I nod and stare into my beer. Dermot always was the quietest. I made the mistake once of thinking that meant he was the weakest, but far from it. “And Redmond?”
“Red Flanagan’s the old man’s gopher, basically. Runs errands, drives cars, that sort of thing.”
“Makes sense. Red would’ve cut his own throat if his father asked him to do it.”
“Probably cut more than a few throats at his father’s request in his day. You know these boys, don’t you?”
“I did once. Not anymore.” I pull back half my beer. Talking about the Flanagan brothers makes me think of the old days, and I don’t like thinking about the old days. But maybe that’s better than thinking about Caroline on her knees scrubbing the floor of my bathroom, her perky little ass wiggling around in the air, or maybe Caroline swimming in my pool, water running off her beautiful, tight body.
Why’d my future wife have to be fucking attractive?
This would be a lot easier if I had never gone into that damn sauna.
“Frankly, they’re pretty bog-standard. They work for the father doing the old man’s bidding. As for the patriarch himself, I can’t say much. He keeps a low profile.”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“Alright, noted. They’ve definitely got some scheme going on right now though. Lots of meetings with some real estate outfit from out West. My guess is some LA dickheads want to build some shitty luxury condos along the riverfront and the unions want to make sure they’re the ones doing all the actual work.”
“Flanagans are good at negotiating that kind of relationship.”
“Mal’s in the room during those talks. Red probably is too.”
